


The Return of the King

by Anonymous



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Armor, F/M, Spoils of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I’ll not lie with you for all the jewels you can offer!” Igraine had once said, daring to think anyone could truly refuse a king.
Relationships: Igraine Pendragon/Uther Pendragon (Arthurian)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Anon Works, Nonconathon 2020





	The Return of the King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



_ "I’ll not lie with you for all the jewels you can offer!” _ Igraine had once said, daring to think anyone could truly refuse a king. More than that, she had dared to think that anyone could run from one, that she could hide in her castle while her true love guarded her, and that the king would not think it worth a war.

What a fool she had been. She should have given in to Uther the night of the banquet. At least then Gorlois and his men would have been alive. She could have cried into her husband’s arms afterwards, for he still would have been there to comfort her. But instead she had refused Uther and run with Gorlois, and now it had all gone to ruin.

With the siege broken and the lord slain, Uther had flung open the doors to the castle with a noise that resounded through the halls. Morgan and Morgause had clung to Igraine’s skirts, and she ordered them now to run and hide, anywhere they could find that was out of his eyesight. She knew better than to believe she could do so herself.

Out of armor, Uther had been handsome and fair-haired, albeit with cruel and hungry eyes. In armor, he was a monster. He strode forward until he towered over the shivering Igraine, and he paused only to look at her. She did not need to see his eyes to know he was assessing his new property.

“I swore I would have you,” he said in a cool, calculating voice. “You were a fool to try and stop me.”

“Please,” Igraine managed to say through her tears. “Please spare my daughters, at least!”

Uther laughed dismissively.

“What do I care about a pair of squalling brats, alive or dead? I have what I came for, and I will have it entirely.” He seized her with an armored hand, jerking her upright. “Now, take me to your bedroom or I will have you here on the floor.”

When Igraine hesitated, those armored hands began to tear at her neckline, ripping open the bodice of her dress, and she pulled away as far as she could in terror. Her steps led towards the bedroom, but it felt more as if she were trying to outrun him than guide him. But he kept up with powerful strides and pushed her down upon the bed.

“See what you have done to me? To a king? Did you think you could drive him mad and escape unhurt?” Despite his words, Uther did not sound out of control. He sounded like a man fully possessed of himself, enjoying every moment of fear on his victim’s face.

“Please,” Igraine moaned, not even knowing why she bothered, “please, in the name of god-”

Uther grabbed her by the chin and turned her to face him.

“You plead very prettily, my love. I look forward to hearing you do more of it.”

His hands left her then, and Igraine scanned about the room for some kind of blade, a kitchen knife or a letter opener, with which she could defend herself. But it was a foolish hope. What could she have done against him, so much more powerful, so much more fearsome? When she looked back at Uther, she saw with horror that he had removed only that much armor which was necessary for his purposes. He meant to take her then and there, without delay.

He fell upon her in her bed, crushing and bruising her tender skin. There would be no gentle kisses, no tender caresses, beneath this man of chain and plate. She would be ripped apart by ridges and torn up by splints in her own bed, and the only hope left to her was that he would kill her and she would not have to endure nightly rapes for the rest of her life.

“Now,” came his voice, “are you going to be obedient to your king and allow me to deal gently with you, or do you intend to cause trouble?”

“I will never be obedient to the man who killed my husband, whatever title you wear,” she said, in spite of herself and her own dread.

“So be it.”

Uther took no time in throwing her back and lifting her skirts, and her kicks could do little against him. The metal of his armor was freezing against her bare legs, and she felt as if she were being assailed by an unbreakable statue. When she had exhausted herself in her futile struggles, Uther hardly seemed to have felt them at all- he simply proceeded in baring her lower body, and did not even stop to arouse her before plunging in. Igraine screamed, less from pain than from the shame of his conquest. Her body burned with something like revulsion, an overwhelming sensation that her flesh was no longer her own.

When her back arched up at his entry, Uther pushed her back down against the soft bed. She whimpered in protest, but though she could not see his face, she knew that he was smiling at her disgrace.

“Beg me,” he said. “Beg me to be gentle.”

Igraine mouthed the words, though she could not find her voice.

“I want to hear you,” he demanded coldly. “Say the words- be gentle,  _ husband _ .”

This was too much to ask, and Uther surely knew it. It was a trap set to punish her, either by her suffering or her humiliation. But refusal of this word was all the power Igraine had left to her, all that remained of loyalty to her love, and she shook her head.

“Never.”

“Then pay for your defiance.”

It was a small mercy that Igraine could not tell her pain from her sorrow as he took her brutally, efficiently, free of any consideration or compassion for her. He was the conquering warlord and she was his prize, and he intended to use her as thoroughly and ruthlessly as was his right.

She had been frightened on her wedding night- how long ago that seemed now!- but Gorlois had taken his time, bringing her pleasure with his hands and lips before slowly easing himself inside of her, asking her how she felt every step of the way. Uther could not have cared less whether he was hurting her- in fact, he even seemed to enjoy the noises she made, the squeals and shrieks of protest as he violated her and her marriage bed. Each scream she uttered seemed to bring about a more violent thrust, and so Igraine was forced to bite her tongue and repress her sounds, leaving only the steady flow of tears to show her disgrace and horror.

“You should be grateful to me,” Uther sneered as he raped her. “How many women can say they’ve had a king? Would you prefer it if I’d left you and your household to the Saxons, and you’d been sold into some foreign brothel?”

“The wildest of Saxons could not have been so cruel as you!” Igraine replied through her tears, and earned a vicious strike for her troubles. The armored hand cut her cheek, and a trickle of blood stained her lovely face. She groaned at the pain, her head swimming, and all she could do was pray that his lust would be sated before she was nothing but blood and tears.

Would he have been so cruel if she had succumbed to his demands when he first made them? Would he still have left her bloody and bruised, or would he have been slow and gentle? Her pride had seemed so important then; her love for her husband, even more so. If she had known what they would lead to, she would have scarred her face and dressed in rags before the cruel king’s eye could ever fall upon her.

Her own eyes had grown so full of tears that she could hardly see.

“Monster!” she sobbed. “Devil! Foul creature from hell!” These insults did not even earn her abuse at Uther’s hands- he simply did not care. He grasped her by the hips and angled her upwards as he built towards a climax, and Igraine could not even bring herself to mind the pain anymore. As her head swam and her body burned, she almost imagined she could hear Gorlois screaming for her in the distance.

And then, all at once, Uther’s frantic thrusting came to an end, and she could feel from the tight grip on her legs slowly loosening that at last he had achieved satisfaction. Mercifully- or perhaps unmercifully- he did not crush her beneath him in his exhaustion. Instead, he sat up and replaced what armor he had discarded as Igraine desperately rubbed her own aching body.

She saw him remove his helmet at last, perhaps to get a good look at her in a position of defeat. Uther’s face was soaked in sweat, but it was otherwise just as she had remembered- still as fair, still as cruel.

“Dress yourself,” he told her, “for you’ll be beside me all night. You’ve given me quite the chase, and I intend to display my prize for the world to see.”

“Like a barbarian displaying his slave,” Igraine hissed.

“No. Like a king displaying his queen.” His lips jerked upward in a proud smile. “Soon, the mother of his son.”


End file.
